


And So It Begins (AKA 'How the Accidental OTP Met')

by reellifejaneway



Series: The Accidental OTP: A Saints Row AU [1]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Saints Row The Third, The Accidental OTP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 16:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6711655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reellifejaneway/pseuds/reellifejaneway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Steelport: A city ruled by the notorious Third Street Saints, a gang of purple-clad misfits run by a trio of powerful, and beautiful, gun-wielding women. </p><p>But little could the Boss-trio have known that one day, the universe would see fit to dump yet another Saint on their doorstep. Enter Morgan Prescott. Thrown from his own dimension by a freakish wormhole, Morgan wakes to find himself in the most precarious scenario he's faced to date - surrounded by the Saints who now believe he is an imposter. And discovering that in this universe, he already exists.... as a woman.</p><p>Had your fill of bizarre AU's? Well strap yourself in (or on, whichever is your preference). Because the Saints are back. And in this reality, the crazy is just getting started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So It Begins (AKA 'How the Accidental OTP Met')

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knightcommanderalenko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightcommanderalenko/gifts).



> Welcome, brave reader, to the 'Accidental OTP' saga. This bizarre Saints Row AU features the amazing (and forever salty) Cassandra Davenport, belonging to @knightcommanderalenko. Morgan Prescott (of both genders) belongs to me (reellifejaneway). 
> 
> Confused much? So were we. But if you'd like some context, this AU happened when two crazy friends began playing co-op.... and then somehow decided that our characters were perfect for a new ship. Do we regret a thing? Well... Sometimes. But not really. (We are more than aware of our collective fuck-up.)
> 
> As always, the world of Steelport and Saints Row belongs to Volition Inc. and Deep Silver. I'm just a fangirl who can't let go...

When he’d woken that morning, the leader of the Third Street Saints had honestly not expected his day to end by falling through a wormhole.

And not just your stereotypical science-fiction wormhole, rife with kaleidoscopic lightning and other film-studio effects. No, his wormhole, for lack of another fitting title, could only be compared to the gaping maw of a behemoth so vast it could have swallowed the entirety of the Syndicate Tower if it so chose.

Luckily for the Saints, it only wanted him.

And that was how, mid-swig of whiskey, one Morgan Prescott found himself falling through a floor that was no longer there and hurtling head-first into an oesophagus-like abyss.

And that wasn’t even the part that caused the headache he was now nursing.

The inter-dimensional mouth had spat him - or vomited him, he couldn’t quite tell - right in the middle of a city intersection. The first Morgan had known of his predicament had been the dramatic visual of a cement expanse rushing at his face. The next he knew, he was rolling to a stop, choking for air and scrabbling at the second skin of mucus he’d suddenly developed.

Only to come face-to-face with a pair of Chevrolet headlights.

Partially blinded and now deafened by a horn, Morgan rolled to one side just in time to narrowly avoid being flattened by screeching rubber. 

Mind you, the alternative was hardly a better outcome. Arguably it was worse. And that was how he had procured the headache.

“Hey man are you okay?”

A pair of strong hands gripped him by his jacket shoulder pads and hauled him up.

“Yeah I uh….” Morgan shook his head, almost as if trying to clear the fog that still crept across the peripheral of his vision, “I am just uh… A little confused.”

“No kidding. You’re lucky you only ate cement.” The voice sounded very familiar, but with his senses as woozy as they were, Morgan couldn’t pinpoint the speaker. “Hey, you need a ride? I can drop you—whoa.”

For that was the moment he’d turned around to try and get a better look at the speaker. “Whoa?” Morgan blinked, reaching up to remove his cracked sunglasses. “Pierce? Is that you?” When no response came, he reached out in the vague direction of the purple-clad blur. “What is it—”

“Holy shit.” Pierce’s voice sounded oddly hollow. Then Morgan heard a faint beeping — the dialling of a phone?

“Pierce, man, talk to me buddy,” Morgan laughed nervously. “I’m kinda blind here.”

Stop moving away, dammit. He took another fumbling step in Pierce’s direction but tripped, grasping a telephone pole just short of collapsing back into the traffic. What the fuck is happening? 

“Pierce?!”

“Yeah, uh boss? There’s something you should see.” 

Now he was thoroughly confused. “I can’t see! I can’t see anything!”

“Uh-huh, look send back-up okay?” Then the sound of another dial. This time to hang up?

Was he on the phone all this time?

Morgan gritted his teeth and pulled himself upright, still clinging to the pole. He felt oddly weak, an uncharacteristic croak to his voice as he offered, “look, Pierce, this whole thing has gotta seem pretty off. I get that. But I kinda need some help here—”

Pierce took a step toward him, and Morgan squinted, his friend’s face barely coming into focus before he saw the vague shape of a balled fist. 

“What the—”

It collided with his jaw long before he even thought to dodge the motion. Morgan let out a weak grunt and fell to the pavement. Darkness overwhelmed him now. The last thing he knew was the taste of copper on his tongue, and the sound of Pierce’s voice murmuring, “Sorry man”.

And then the world went utterly black.

 

* * *

 

Moaning, Morgan rubbed at his eyes. Leather creaked in protest beneath his shifting weight; the faint clinking of glasses and the stale scent of vanilla and whiskey immediately rousing him from his slumber. He took a steady breath.

A bad dream, that’s all it was. 

Then he opened his eyes.

If Morgan expected his bizarre nightmare to spring back to life in any moment, then it was this one. But instead he was met with the dull concrete ceiling of the Syndicate penthouse.

Anticlimactic.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he was met with the rather disconcerting presence of at least three Saints, standing in a circle around the couch. All of them armed. And all of them equally ashen-faced.

Upon seeing him gain consciousness, one turned toward the bar and called, “Boss? He’s awake.”

Morgan blinked. “Seriously? I was gone five seconds and you have replaced me already?”

But his smirk was short-lived. 

Pierce strode into the room, followed closely by Shaundi and a redheaded woman in killer heels. 

Correction. A fucking  _ gorgeous  _ redhead in fucking  _ murderous  _ heels.

He didn’t have to be a genius to realise that he was screwed. Or, in a way, he  _ wished  _ he was. But Morgan wasn’t allowed any time to comprehend his situation much beyond that.

Shaundi stopped dead and gaped. “Is this a joke?” She turned upon Pierce with a glare. “What is he, some kind of look-a-like stripper? How much did you pay him to dress like that?”

Frowning, Morgan glanced down at his clothes. They aren’t that bad.  _ Are they…? _

“Oh cut me some slack, man, this isn’t a set-up. I dragged him off the road literally seconds before he got flattened. Poor dude got launched from some kind of portal and could barely think straight.”

The redhead put her hands on her hips. “So you thought you’d just bring him back here and dump him on my couch?” She looked Morgan up and down. “Dressed like that?”

“Hey!” Morgan raised his hands in defence, shooting her his most charming smile. “I admit, the leather is a bit, uh, distressed. But the mucus thing was totally not my fault. Ask Pierce.”

The two women turned their murderous gazes on the man in question. 

He flinched, “It’s the truth.”

“Mucus?” Shaundi looked as though she was barely resisting the urge to gag. “Well that explains the smell.”

The redhead clapped Pierce on the shoulder. “Nice work, Pierce. Now you get to clean up the stains.”

“Well  _ excuse  _ me,” he huffed, throwing his hand in the air. “I just figured you’d rather see it for yourself instead of me just leaving him there in the gutter.”

“ _ It _ ?” 

The trio paused at the disdainful tone, as if suddenly remembering Morgan existed.

“Oh yeah, I am right here, and sorry to interrupt your enthralling debate, but I am not an ‘it’.” He rolled his eyes. “And I do happen to have a name.”

“Oh really?” Shaundi folded her arms. “Let me guess, ‘Felize Firm-Buns’? ‘Sebastian Slong’?”

“’Joe Nadds’?” Pierce offered.

Shaundi punched him in the shoulder, then snickered. “Nice one.”

“Thanks, I thought it was pretty—”

The redhead groaned and covered her eyes with her hand. “I’m only asking politely for the benefit of our guest, but will you two please shut up?”

“Sorry boss.”

“Wait.” Morgan sat upright now, confusion written all over his features. “You’re the boss?”

She appraised him with a steel grey eye, arching one brow derisively. “Well that’s what they say in bed.” Ignoring Pierce’s snicker, she continued, “Now, care to tell me what’s really going on here? And don’t say your name is Joe Nadds or I’ll deck you.”

Morgan grimaced. “Point taken.” Slowly rising from the couch, he rolled his shoulders before casually extending a hand for her to shake. “The name is Prescott. Morgan Prescott.”

“What?” Shaundi shook her head, “No, asshole, your real name.”

“That  _ is  _ my real name.”

“Yeah?” The redhead drew her pistol then — whether from a barely concealed thigh holster or somewhere else, Morgan couldn’t quite tell. “Let’s add some incentive to this little game, shall we?”

“Whoa!” He backed up then, half kneeling on the couch just to put as much distance between himself and the gun barrel as he could. “Calm down guys, I’m not playing at anything here.”

“Bullshit,” the redhead spat, cocking the weapon. 

“I swear!” Morgan glanced between the trio in terror. “Look, I was only here a few hours ago. Then somehow I woke up on the street, nearly got hit by a car and got — arguably — rescued by Pierce. That’s all I know to tell you! I’ve got no idea what is happening. I don’t even know who you are, except that I woke up this morning as the boss of the Third Street Saints and now apparently  _ you  _ are. I’ve got nothing else to offer you.”

“Seriously?” She curled her lip at him. “Give me one good reason to believe a word you say.”

“Because…. Because….” He flinched. “Well shit. I can’t think of one.”

A strained silence fell across the room.

“So you’re seriously telling me your name is Morgan Prescott.”

“Yes,” he groaned, “For the third time. Morgan Kendall Prescott. Well,” he shrugged, “It’s not my birth name but you guys know this already, right? If you seriously want me to prove who I am.”

The redhead’s brows furrowed then, and she drew back in visible surprise. “How do you know about that--?”

“It’s my life, babe, I know what I lived.”

“Don’t call me babe.”

“Then what else do I call you?”

“Cass Davenport.” She returned the gun to its trained point between his eyes. “Now, explain  _ how the fuck _ you know this information. Who sent you?”

“Nobody sent me!” Morgan threw his hands in the air and repeated through clenched teeth, “My name is Morgan Prescott. I was born Morgan Kendall Preston, and last I checked that was the god awful name printed on my birth certificate. Now will somebody tell  _ the Boss here _ to drop her  _ fucking  _ weapon?”

“Hate to tell you this, man,” Pierce said quietly, “but that’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“Your name, dickhead,” Shaundi muttered.

Never before in his life had Morgan felt so torn between screaming — or giving up altogether. Finally he settled on muttering, “And why is that exactly?”

A new voice addressed him then, this time from behind him.

“Because, that’s  _ my  _ name.”

Morgan froze. Then, slowly, he worked up the nerve to turn around.

There, on the penthouse stairs, stood the tall figure of a woman. Her arms were folded across what was a rather buxom chest, her heeled legs planted firmly upon the threshold as she stared down at him furiously. Now, as Morgan took in her face, horror bloomed in radiating shivers up his spine. 

Identical silver eyes framed with flecks of lavender glared straight back into his, framed by derisively curved brows. Her full lips were parted in a silent snarl — or was that a laugh, he couldn’t quite tell — but either way, he couldn’t deny the striking resemblance. The element that settled the argument once and for all, however, was her hair. Nearly pure white curls framed her features in almost a mirror image of his own style choice. A perfect flick fell between her brows, and now, as she descended the stairs with a flamboyant twirl of her coat, he realised that the resemblance didn’t stop at the perfectly groomed platinum mane.

She was his exact duplicate. In every regard except gender.

“You can’t possibly be Morgan Prescott,” she told him nonchalantly, signalling for Cass to lower her weapon. “Because I am.” 

A tense moment passed before the other Morgan took a step into his personal space. She moved around behind him, inspecting him closely, before turning him by the chin to study his eyes.

She exhaled, her dark lashes fluttering as she blinked in confusion. “Well, fuck me.”

“With all due respect, uh, other me,” Morgan blinked, “I’ll have to pass.”

She scowled and slapped him, hard. As he tumbled to the floor she added, “If you weren’t me, I would have done much worse.”

“Lucky us then,” Morgan muttered, nursing his bruised jaw.

“If you are who you claim you are, then tell me something.” The female ‘Morgan’ got down on her haunches, ignoring his graceless sprawl on the floor, “What was the type of alcohol our father used to keep in his desk?”

He grimaced. “Grey Goose Magnum.” Then a quiet chuckle, “You sneaked a few swigs while he was in meetings too, eh?”

Other Morgan’s face paled and she straightened. “Fuck.”

All eyes in the room turned on her now, as she indicated for Pierce to step forward. “Take him to my office.”

“What?” Cass grabbed her by the arm then. “You’re letting him into the back rooms?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because, Cass, this is no impostor.” The female Morgan helped him up then, tilting his chin up so that their eyes were on level. “This man, however impossible, is exactly who he says he is. He is Morgan Prescott. And I don’t know how to explain this, but I can’t ignore the facts.” 

As pierce helped him up, Morgan quipped, “So does this mean you’re not going to kill me?” 

Cass turned her gaze upon her friend expectantly. “I can still shoot him if you’d prefer.” 

“No.” Morgan’s black-lined eyes narrowed. “No, I want to find out exactly why he’s here. And how.”


End file.
